No Longer With Us
by The Clutzy One
Summary: After an accident, Bella must do her job, and help six people move on. Rating for themes, situations, words, and actions.
1. Chapter 1

I never meant to be good; or maybe it's more of I never intended to be good enough.

I didn't spend my life consciously telling myself to do the right thing, to be the better person, to help people; I never once tried to be good.

No, I saved that for my death.

As far as deaths go, it was an okay one. I mean, I've met quite a few colleagues that have had better ones, but mine makes me feel as if I somehow justified the "never once tried to be good" with my death.

It wasn't murder, which would have been interesting, or sickness, which wouldn't. I didn't commit suicide—that would take an involvement in life that I never possessed.

It was purely accidental.

I think it helped me become who I am—I wouldn't be here if I hadn't died as I had. My death probably contradicts my statements on never meaning to be good. But then again, maybe not. I'm still trying to figure that one out.

It was one of those hot, sticky days in Iowa that made you wish you were a boy, if only so that you could take off your shirt and walk around without being arrested for public indecency. If I'm being honest- which, honestly, is unavoidable, now- it was one of those days that made me long to be a different person, in a different life, in a different place, if only to avoid the heat.

I always enjoy remembering this; it makes me feel like I was a better person.

I was outside, gardening, the tangy smell of the tomato plants sticking to my sweat, the sharp smell of the onion leaves I had accidentally stepped on permeating the air, the feel of the soft dirt under my bare toes- God, how I miss that.

The boy across the street, Jasper, was playing catch with his older brother, Edward.

I remember Edward. He was honey and cinnamon and brown sugar and sunshine. He made me want to look good in daisy-dukes.

"Go long, Jasper!"

I had taken a break, and my back was thanking me. I watched them interact, enjoying the easy, familiar way they threw the ball.

Jasper ran, farther, farther, to the edge of the yard, standing on the curb. The street was an invisible wall.

The football arced through the air, going straight through his outstretched fingers and hopped away, into the middle of the street.

I had been moving closer, without realizing it, invading the brothers' moment. I wanted to experience that bond- or maybe I wanted to be closer to Edward. I can't pretend to understand the thoughts that motivated my feet to shuffle closer to the edge of my side of the street.

A truck rolled into view. Big, banana yellow.

When I got here, I learned that the driver had just been told that his wife wanted a divorce…by his wife's lawyer. He was sobbing into the wheel of that big, banana yellow truck when he almost ran into that little boy chasing a football into the street.

He was sobbing when he killed me.

When the ambulance came, I was already here. It was long past my time. Jasper had a sprained ankle, from being pushed out of the way of a truck.

The last thing I heard as a mortal was Edward sobbing my name.

**A/N:**

**Disclaimer- no claiming being done : )**

**Is it worth it? **


	2. Chapter 2

I've been told that the only reason I'm here is because my last act spoke for itself; I'm pretty sure I'm going to call bull shit.

Had I thought over what I was doing, I wouldn't have done it. Probably. But you can never really know…which is just my way of being self-righteous and trying to make myself feel better. Which is dishonest. So: If I had thought over what I was doing, I wouldn't have done it.

I've also been told that I have a job. And here I was, thinkin' I got to sit back in my mansion and eat free ice cream once I made it here.

I've been told that it's our duty to help the lost souls. The ones that don't know to ask forgiveness. The ones that don't know if they deserve it.

They say that helping them is the only thing we can do. Bull shit.

One of the few things they've told me that turned out to be true is that it's hard to be back, the first time. Heck, it's hard every time.

The journey, in itself, is easy. Just take the plunge, step over the edge. Dying tends to get rid of all inhibitions.

It's the meeting the souls that's hard. That's worse than dying, for me, anyway.

I'll never forget the first one I saw. She was beautiful.

At first glance, she was. There was nothing else to describe that first glance- she just _was._ She was average and adorable, and clearly someone had been able to love her, with her hips rounded and a little extra padding from when babies had grown inside her womb. She was a soccer mom, a wife, a lover, a friend. She was.

After I stared at her for a while, she blossomed. Rays of blue light shot out from her, made a ring around her, gave her an aura, became her, and filled her. She was beautiful, truly, completely, beautiful. And all I could think was blue. Blue was sorrow and sadness and sorry.

Lost souls don't know how to ask for the forgiveness needed in order to be found. Or they don't know how to accept it.

Esme Cullen was an average mom, wife, lover, and friend. To those who knew her, she was the world. To those who didn't, she was another face in another crowd.

It's the average cases that are the most tragic.

"You're my third." She threw it at me, her slightly grating voice forgotten as I was lost in the eddies and flurries of blue surrounding the compression waves.

"And you're my first." She looked up at me for the first time. I looked down and away from her piercing gaze, at the two blocks of stone, the green grass covering some of the words, making them look like children's fill in the blank work pages, not tombstones.

"You're younger than the other two." She was testing me, baiting me, waiting for me to make a mistake.

"And you're older than you should be." She shouldn't be here; she was already losing her color, slowly turning transparent.

Souls don't do well on Earth; at least without a body, they don't. The body fails, they need to move one.

She nodded at me, her brown hair shaking as she agreed with my unspoken statement—she shouldn't be here. Here in particular-at the graves of her two children.

"They died." She cut me open with her words, cut herself open with the memory.

Her grief washed over me, and I almost fell to my knees with the weight of it.

She needed me to do something, and I had no idea what I needed to do.

"Well _obviously_." Inhaling sharply, she knifed a glare at me before throwing her head back and laughing humorlessly.

"I like you." She turned around and walked out of the cemetery, leaving foot prints of blue in the green grass.

In many ways, she was the toughest soul I've ever helped.

She was my teacher, and knew it. She taught me everything I do, everything I know. She taught me that showing up looking the beautiful angel and sounding the happy, loved person does not help.

She taught me that being ugly is to be familiar, that speaking positively only shows off the differences between us. She taught me to be real, be mean, and be a jerk. She taught me to be the best at what I do.

They say that our job is to help. They scorned my methods, laughed when I didn't help, and ignored me when I succeeded. Some things never change, whether the people are in human or angel form.

I was different; I hadn't asked for forgiveness, hadn't received it, and yet, there I was. One of them. In my life, I had been destined to be a lost soul. But then I wasn't.


End file.
